


the future can’t be real

by paxamdays



Category: Blur (Band), British Singers RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Addiction, Friends With Benefits, Heroin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, because if you squint real hard they kind of are, justine and alex are just mentioned btw, thought i'd mention them anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29508912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxamdays/pseuds/paxamdays
Summary: “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”He’s blunt, showing no discernible emotion in his voice, yet it startles me. I sigh and close my eyes, squeeze his body like I’m terrified I’m going to lose him. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
Relationships: Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon, Damon Albarn/Justine Frischmann
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	the future can’t be real

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is my first blur fic so i hope its not too shit. i've also decided to try and expand my abilities as a writer by giving first person perspective a go. hopefully thats not too shit either.
> 
> set in 1994/1995 (before the release of the great escape though). title is taken from i love you honeybear by father john misty :)

I spend the summer with him in my arms, hidden beneath the covers in the dark where no one can see us. It’s poetic, I suppose, the lovers who can only truly show themselves to each other in the dead of night, melting into the ungodly hours of the morning — although ‘lovers’ may be too strong of a word. He had made it very apparent from the start that it was never going to be more than sex, than much needed intimacy that Justine seemingly couldn’t give him. I continue to oblige him because of course I do. _I love you_ always seems to remain dormant on my tongue, and I think I have gotten to the point where it doesn’t bother me anymore.

It was never meant to be like this.

I’m on to my sixth beer of the night when the bedroom door swings open and Damon stumbles into my room. It’s unexpected, unannounced, and he’s smiling, dazed and limp; I hear the spare house key hit the ground. He’s high, which isn’t uncommon for our meetings (or whatever these are; it’s nothing scheduled, only Damon sporadically turning up whenever he’s stressed or high or horny or some combination of the three), but I don’t dwell on it too much. This is second nature for him, although it still feels like I’m trying to get used to it.

“Hey”, he slurs. “How are you?”

I sigh and shuffle over. “Come over.”

He makes a beeline for the bed and collapses onto it, skinny limbs sprawled across the mattress. I almost drop my beer when one of his arms hits me, but manage to prevent it from spilling on me. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”

Damon shakes his head. “Walked. Do you think I have a death wish?”

Then he sits up, so sudden it makes me nearly spill my beer _again,_ and he’s cross legged and laughing like it’s the funniest fucking thing he’s ever said. “Oh, _please_ don’t answer that. I’ve already copped enough shit tonight.”

The second half of his statement shouldn’t sound like a joke, but he cackles his way through it until he’s wiping tears from his eyes. I shouldn’t press; it never ends well. But I’m a bastard and ask, “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, really. Just fought with Justine.”

My throat tightens at the mention of her name. “Over what?”

“She was just spouting shit, y’know. Pointless stuff. Then she brought you into it, called you my fuck buddy. And it was just… _messy._ Had a shouting match and everything.”

 _Fuck buddy._ How charming of her.

I suppose I shouldn’t be irritated when she has every right to be angry about it. And to think I believed we were being subtle.

Alex and Dave probably know about it too, although they have a tendency to ignore things when it seems like they can escalate and have severe repercussions. I can’t blame them for it either. I often think of us getting caught, whether it be in the back of a club or an afterparty or backstage at a show. What would the tabloids say? Probably put some crude, dirty spin on one of our song titles, turn it into some superficial joke; _This is a Low: Albarn seen cheating on girlfriend with Blur bandmate,_ or _Come together: Britpop stars caught in the act._ Heaven forbid _the_ _Sun_ finds out — none of us need to wake up to some shit like _Parklove_ in big bold letters on the cover of a low level excuse for journalism.

Media aside, what _would_ happen? I can’t act as though the band wouldn’t be put in jeopardy; it seems we’re already strained enough. I like to believe that a normal, sane person would have ended things before they’d even started, before it had gotten to this point. Things would be easier if they didn’t happen at all.

But then Damon will be kissing my neck, my collarbone, my chest, my thighs. He’ll give me everything I do not deserve — everything beautiful about him, wasted on my weakening body. I don’t love him for it because I can’t. Neither of us will allow it. Yet, I don’t want him to ever stop.

I’m sitting with my back slumped against the headboard, beer still clutched in my hand, and he crawls over and curls up against me, head rested on my shoulder. “Don’t matter. How are you? You didn’t answer me before.”

I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat while toying with a stray piece of his hair. “Fine.”

“Really?”

“Nothing else to be.”

He turns to look at me, eyes suddenly wide. “What happened to your face?”

Damon’s sat himself up a bit, fingers brushed against my left cheek; it’s still swollen, which indicates that the ice pack from earlier did fuck all. I wince, but he cups it, thumb circling the tender skin until I don’t feel a thing. If I wasn’t so tired, I would probably laugh just to fill the empty space.

“Got the wrong person angry”, I say, shrugging and taking another sip of my now flat beer. In reality, I swiped some gin from a bottle shop earlier and got caught; clearly, the owner hadn’t been forgiving about it (it also didn't help that I had more or less provoked him beforehand, drunkenly shouting _'Who the fuck are you looking at?',_ as if I had any chance against a pissed off 15 stone man who couldn't give a damn who I was). But like everyone who has the misfortune of being in my life, I don’t blame him for reacting the way he did.

Damon’s eyes are bleary, chaotic, pleading. He’s always been hard to read, and I wish he didn’t have to do this, especially when my head’s already full with enough useless, complicated thoughts. He knows this, I think. He knows I’m always trying to break him down into smaller, more comprehensible parts.

His hand leaves my face — its sort of pathetic how quickly I miss the touch of his skin on mine — and suddenly he’s got my drink and pulled it close to his chest. I wipe the beer from my lips and say, “You could have asked, you know, I’m more than willing to share.”

“You should slow down a little”, he mumbles, as if it’s hard to admit. “You might hurt yourself.”

It leaves me speechless; not from shock, because I’m not stupid enough to think that this is still just a bad habit I can shake off and that it’s not something deeper, something ugly and dangerous — at least I’m self aware. I say nothing because I can’t. He’s right, of course, and I’m also not one to start an argument for the sake of it.

“I think I’m a bit sick”, I whisper. “We’re both a little rough tonight, aren’t we?”

He smiles, sad and sympathetic. I hate it when he’s like this. It makes it easier to fall for him. I wonder if he knows this, too.

“Yeah. I think I’m sick too”, he mumbles. Then his fingers dip into the pocket of his jacket and emerge with a fag and a yellow Bic lighter. He lights it and pulls it to his mouth, inhaling steadily, and I watch, in equal parts awe and unease, as he takes a few drags. His chapped lips are like uncut gems; raw, glistening, secrets buried beneath his teeth. I would confess to him that he can tell me anything, that I will take those words he so desperately wants to keep down in his chest and love them forever. But the words do not come to me; they never do. So I say nothing, take the cigarette from his limp fingers and bring it to my mouth. The back of my throat is burning when he says, “There’s something off about me, don’t you think?”

“You’re okay”, I say. My hand slips to meet his. His lithe fingers intertwine with mine. He’s breaking down into the mattress, leaving a mess behind. He gets the cigarette back and takes a drag, paper crushed softly by his lips.

“I’m dying.” The smoke comes tumbling out of his mouth, thick plumes of darkness like thunderclouds. He smiles weakly, pauses, and brings a finger to his temple. “But I gotta keep my genius going, Gra. We’re gonna take on the world.”

I snort; it’s unattractive, but he seems to appreciate it, despite probably not fully understanding my intentions. We’re number one on the charts, got the media and thousands of screaming teenage girls eating from the palm of our fucking hands, and he wants _more._ But that’s so like him, isn’t it? All Damon ever wants is more than he can handle.

But I frown, taking what he’s said into consideration. I should argue it; he’s always had a better way with words than me, than anyone, really. It’s a talent, a gift, a burden. He constantly disputes that, says he’s found inspiration elsewhere, in the smallest nooks and most obscure crannies. He’s unexpectedly modest like that. It’s a strange dichotomy to his typically loud, brash self.

“You don’t need that to fuel your genius”, I mumble into his neck. “You’re already incredible.”

“You make me blush, Gra, honestly.”

“’S true.”

He doesn’t respond straight away; for once, he’s apparently lost for words. Then the heavy silence of the room is broken by a slight inhale from Damon, and he talks low under his breath and I hang on to every weary syllable that leaves his mouth.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

He’s blunt, showing no discernible emotion in his voice, yet it startles me. I sigh and close my eyes, squeeze his body like I’m terrified I’m going to lose him. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“Don’t be. Remember, Dames, I’m just as sick as you are. We’re in this together.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” No hesitation.

I watch his lips curve upwards as he blinks slowly. Then, without warning, he sits up and slides himself into my lap, crushing his cigarette into the headboard and tossing it aside. Before I can chastise him for it, his hands are cupping my face (they’re ice cold, especially against my swollen cheek) and he kisses me on the lips. It’s brief, tastes like smoke and stale alcohol, but it’s all I need. It’s enough.

He pulls off and smiles wearily. Then his hand reaches down to the waistband of my trousers.

“Oh”, I say, grabbing his wrist. “No. Not tonight. Come on, you need to get some sleep.”

He screws his face up, whining like a child. “Please, Graham. I just need—“

 _“No.”_ I push him away and watch his shoulder slump. I’m a hypocrite; we’ve done this countless times in this state, where he’s too high to know what’s happening and I’m too drunk to feel anything that isn’t his body pressed against mine. But tonight is different, and I’m not going to take advantage of him when he’s like this. I don’t know if it makes much sense. Maybe I’m too sensitive.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He slides down and pulls himself closer against me, arm sprawled over my chest. He’s slightly shorter than me, but even now he feels so small against the curve of my body; it’s almost exemplified when my fingers drift down and slot in the spaces in between his ribs, like they were made to fit there. I could die right here in this bed.

“You’re lovely to me, Graham”, he mumbles, almost asleep, the high wearing off. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“What?”

“Mm.” He ignores me but I don’t mind. “So lovely. You’re so great. And...”

The rest becomes far too quiet, an inaudible mess of words. I whisper, “And what?”

“And I love you.”

My breathing comes to a halt, and my heart gives out, so still in my ribcage like it has nothing left to give.

_I love you._

It was never meant to be like this; we only come together at night, only ever resembling love, or some crude form of it, when I fuck him into the sheets and then wake up to a lonely other half. I am constantly awake while he finds solace in sleep; I’ve never been good with words, and he’s a modern-day poet. We are so different, yet I think back to a time when Alex said that we complete each other. Maybe he’s right.

“Dames.”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.”


End file.
